


go ahead, split me in two, you'll be surprised, that half is you.

by jojojoji



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Dangerous Rook, F/M, Fluff, Homicidal Rook, Psychopathic Rook, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, but the soft!jacob we need, from here on out i officially decree, from meat to soulmate with the pull of a trigger, he has a soulmeat, i’ll just show myself out, not the soft!jacob we deserve, pain-sharing soulmates au, soft!jacob, that jacob doesn’t have a soulmate, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojojoji/pseuds/jojojoji
Summary: Jacob Seed knows he has a soulmate, but after everything that’s happened, everything he’s survived, tolerated, endured…He doubts they’ll ever want to meet him for the pain and suffering he’d caused them.Little does he know, the deputy that’s been wreaking havoc in his region is more than just his perfect soldier…TL:DR - Haven’t you heard that the greatest love stories start with a bullet?





	go ahead, split me in two, you'll be surprised, that half is you.

Jacob will never get tired of seeing you slaughter the weak.

Your trials are gory, visceral masterpieces - watching someone so lethal, so ruthless, so strong decimate people so puny, so worthless, so weak was nothing short of glorious. 

Pride takes physical form in his chest - satisfied, pleased, mesmerized.

His perfect soldier has yet to disappoint.

Nineteen targets down, only five left to go.

You, the cocky little brat that you are, haven’t touched a single one of the guns laid out before you, ditching your baseball bat by a skull-bashed corpse, finishing the job off with that little fucking switchblade that’s always stashed on your person.

Doesn’t matter how many times he or his men confiscate it from you, it always ends-up back in your pocket by the end of the day.

Houdini himself couldn’t explain that one.

Five targets.

You sever a femoral artery.

Four left.

You slice a jugular.

Three remain.

You spear an aortic artery.

Two waiting.

You bury the blade to the hilt between a pair of eyes.

One to go.

Only this one is able to land a shot.

By complete accident.

A fucking ricochet bullet gets lodged in your shoulder.

And that’s when the unthinkable happens.

Jacob’s shoulder wails in agony, to the point that his fingers instinctively clutch to stop the bleeding for a wound that isn’t there.

You curse quietly - angered more than pained, as if you’re pissed that you didn’t get through this trial unscathed like your trials before, not because there‘s a gaping hole in your shoulder that’s leaking profusely.

You don’t kill this last target as cleanly - eviscerating him with a slow, deliberate flourish, the poor son-of-a-bitch slumping to the ground, blood pooling out of him like a carnal puddle, his insides on display for the crowd to see.

For Jacob to see.

As much as he’d like to enjoy the carnage his perfect soldier has wrought, he can’t stop thinking about the screeching pain he’d felt when you’d been shot, that hasn’t dulled though it feels like an eternity’s passed since Jacob heard the gun fire.

That had to be a coincidence, right?

Jacob shakes his head - stubborn, refusing, disbelieving - thinking that it had to be that, it couldn’t be anything else, but right before the song ends, marking the end of your trial, you do one last thing.

You clean your knife of the blood you’d spilled on your flannel shirt - red blending neatly against red - and dig the fucking bullet out.

When Jacob’s shoulder screams in anguish, throbbing and aching and burning, with him clenching his teeth and cursing up-and-down, he realizes that this wasn’t a coincidence, this was the precise opposite of a coincidence, this was…

This was…

No. It couldn’t be. That wasn’t even in the fucking realm of possibility.

Just as the piece of lead pops out of your shoulder, you crumble to the ground in an inelegant heap of bony limbs and withering muscles, the exhaustion and starvation catching up with you as the final notes of the song echo through the room and you pass out.

This time around, instead of leaving you out in the wilderness for Eli’s little militia to find and take care of their darling little deputy, Jacob orders his men to clean out your wound, bandage it up and take you back to your cage.

The yard’s much quieter without the twenty-four weaklings you’d decimated in under three minutes.

Regardless of what’s happened, what he’s felt, what’s stirring in his gut, Jacob wants one last bit of concrete evidence.

Takes you about an hour to come-to, stirring from the howls of the wolves nearby, the recruits training across the compound, the screams of the latest candidates being thrown into the recently-vacated cages.

He gives you a minute to wake-up, but once he sees the flicker of lucidity in your eyes, he doesn’t waste a second more.

Unsheathing his knife, he lifts up his shirt and drags the serrated edge slowly, deeply across his hip, his eyes never straying from the cameras pointed at your cage, watches as your fingers reach for your hip, a strangled hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

“Been a tough day for us, huh, sweetheart?”

Your chuckle is quiet, breathy, nearly missed by the speakers, your head thunking back against the metal bars, a small, weary smile on your face.

Jacob’s chest lurches.

Soulmates.

You’re his fucking soulmate.

The pain he’s experienced since he was eighteen, that you’ve experienced since birth, has been shared between you.

He orders, snarls at, Peaches to fetch you from the cage, can’t find it in himself to laugh at the horror in his eyes, at the thoughts that must be racing through his broken mind at what Jacob’s planning do to you, because he can’t wrap his head around the fact that the person he thought he’d never meet, that wouldn’t want to meet him, that he’d stopped thinking about years ago because it hurt too much to think about their rejection was you.

The deputy that was wreaking havoc in Hope County.

The lamb that would be the beginning and the end.

The harbinger of the Collapse.

Jacob doesn’t know if there’s a God, but if there is, He’s got a twisted fucking sense of humor.

And Jacob laughs.

•

Though this is the first time you’ve been in his office, you make yourself right at home, sinking into the couch off to the side, sighing in content.

Jacob would’ve hauled you off by the scruff of your neck if you didn’t look so peaceful.

There isn’t a single soul - besides his brothers - that have ever been this comfortable around him.

Fear, apprehension and desperation are the common denominators, but he can’t remember a single instance where you’ve had as much as an inkling of any of those in his presence.

“You don’t realize how much you take shitty couches for granted until you’ve been sleeping on soil for a week,” you murmur, sinking into the cushions with a gratified smile. 

Jacob doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks for the patch-job, by the way, boss. Though I’ll admit, I’m confused as fuck about it. Doesn’t the idea of it getting infected, of me getting sepsis, of the pesky thorn in your side rotting in a cage just butter your biscuit?”

•

You snort when he brings up the topic of soulmates - he hasn’t mentioned anything about you being his and vice versa - finds himself stifling a chuckle because you shared his initial skepticism.

But when he asks you what you think about them, what you think about yours, you go quiet.

Uncharacteristically, eerily quiet.

Slowly, your hand reaches for your hip, fingers ghosting against the line Jacob had carved into his skin as you murmur, “I‘m sure they wish I’d died a long time ago.”

Jacob doesn’t know what he was expecting, but hearing those words from you - in such a melancholy, bittersweet tone - is like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to his chest.

“You’re wrong.”

You look up, startled by the anger dripping from his voice, his clenched fists, his trembling, bristling form.

Instead of lifting his shirt and brandishing the cut across his hip, he decides to tell you a little story.

And watches as the color drains from your face with each and every word.

•

He was 21, in the middle of his third year of service, when one day, he doubled-over in pain in the midst of a training exercise, crumbling to the ground in agony, screaming like he was being roasted alive from the inside-out.

Doctors ran all sorts of tests, because he’s dealt with bullets and shrapnel, but never had he felt something as excruciating as this.

When the tests came back negative, they explained that it wasn’t his pain, it was his soulmate’s.

He would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it all, but the pain he was in rendered him speechless, debilitated by the liquid acid simmering in his veins, pooling in his stomach, shredding his insides, melting his bones, boiling his brain.

They put him in a medically-induced coma because they thought the pain would’ve killed him.

This continued, on-and-off, for a whole year. 

Though his soulmate was building a tolerance, Jacob was enraged at the fact they were enduring such treatment in the first place, that someone was doing this to his soulmate frequently, intentionally, on a fucking schedule.

Years later, when he’s littered with burns, scars and rashes, he has a hard time knowing that he’d inflicted more pain and suffering onto them.

•

“I... You… You felt all of it?”

Jacob has never heard you sound so small.

“Yeah. I felt all of it.”

His voice comes out gruff, a tone that’s harsher than he meant, but the memories of that pain dredge up the anger that’s bled with all the rage in his life.

You wince as if he’s slapped you.

“... I’m sorry.”

“What?” Jacob asks, dumbfounded, at the guilt across your face.

As if you’d asked to be tortured.

“... When we were toddlers, they injected us with viruses, poisons, mutations to make our immune systems invincible by adolescence. They broke us apart, tore out the pieces they didn’t like, built us into their perfect soldiers. To fight the war on terror.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry—“

“Don’t,” Jacob snarls, his hand coiled around your throat, caging you against the wall, his fangs bared.

You don’t fight him, hands dangling limply at your sides, which enrages him all the more.

“You felt acid,” Jacob bites down at his arms, something that most people shy away from or refuse to look at altogether, but you don’t so much as flinch.

“... Yes.”

He tugs at the neckline of his t-shirt, pulls it down, practically tears it in-half, to expose the scarred tissue of his shoulders and torso.

“You felt shrapnel,” he grits, marveling at how you don’t shrink away from the venom in his voice, the metal of his grip, the horrendous canvas he’s had to look at for the better half of his life.

“Yes,” you murmur, eyes tracing down his chest with something like awe in your eyes, something too raw and authentic that Jacob almost forgets that he’s baring the extent of his damage to someone, to his soulmate - the person who’s felt each and every one of his scrapes, bruises, gashes, gunshots, burns - because the way you’re looking at him doesn’t make him feel like the monster he’s come to believe he is, sparks something within him that he can’t describe because he’s never felt it.

“You felt fire,” he hisses, yanking at your hands, holding them against his face, where the burns were undeniable, couldn’t be hidden beneath any degree of camouflage, that he’d come to accept because there wasn’t an alternative, to deny them would be rejecting himself and Jacob didn’t have anyone but himself for years — not when he’d thought he’d lost his brothers for good, not when he’d realized he was nothing but a soldier without a purpose, not when he’d accepted that he was a warrior without a legacy.

Not when he thought that his soulmate hated him for the pain he’d inflicted on them.

“Yes,” you say, breathless, as if he’d given you permission to touch something pristine, flawless, beautiful - your fingers splaying slowly, gingerly across his skin, not just touching the abused flesh but caressing the damaged tissue.

Like it’s something to be revered.

Jacob’s leaning into your touch before he can think better of it, his hands no longer forcing yours against his skin, but cradling them like he’s terrified you’d tear them away.

“... You don’t have a damn thing to apologize for,” Jacob manages, as you lick your lips at the expanse of skin, staring at the damaged flesh with a reverence that convinces him that you’re looking at something else, thinking about something else, because nobody in their right mind would look at these scars like they’re invaluable pieces of art.

“Neither do you.”

Jacob doesn’t know what to say to that - thinks that the constellation of scars across both of your bodies speak volumes - but he’s always been a man of action, so he seals the distance between you, tangling his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back, slotting your mouths together easily, like two jagged jigsaw pieces finally coming together into something dangerous, sharp, beautiful.

“Didn’t think I’d find you,” Jacob murmurs, voice thick and hoarse with emotions he didn’t think he’d be capable of, hands slipping underneath your shirt, tracing the starbursts of visceral masterpieces along your back.

“Didn’t think you’d want to,” you laugh, broken and soft, a vulnerability to you that Jacob’s chest aches at, your lips peppering his face - every inch, every scar, every burn - with kisses, slow and lingering and worshipping.

“You’re an idiot.”

You laugh, nip at his jaw sweetly.

“Takes one to know one.”

He growls, but it’s playful, a content rumble in his chest before he‘s kissing you quiet.

The hum against his lips spurs shivers down his spine.

There’d be plenty of time to ask the stories behind each and every scar he feels beneath his fingertips, the pain you’ve each experienced in your lifetimes.

But for right now, a word didn’t need to be said.

They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but what few people know is that scars hold a whole different language.

Jacob's determined to become fluent in every last inch of you.


End file.
